Feelings Bleed
by BrightWings111
Summary: Sherlock is unwillingly forced to become the guardian of a young relative that he didn't even know existed; an anti-social teenage girl who got her cleverness and wit from him.
1. Introduction

**Yay new story! Okay, I really think this is one of my best stories so far. I have eighty something pages handwritten so hopefully I can post regularly *crosses fingers* Let's hope. Enjoy?**

* * *

_Introduction_

* * *

The roaring music blasting into my ears through my earbuds blocked out all unwanted noise. The playlist I was listening to was full of an assortment of my favorite heavy bands; Five Finger Death Punch, Stone Sour, Breaking Benjamin, Sick Puppies, and Skillet. I wasn't interested in what was going on around me. Not the streets of London, not the cab I was in, and most certainly not my father trying to talk to me.

"Sierra," he said warningly. I couldn't hear him, actually. I read his lips and facial expression. I ignored him. "Sierra Holmes, you listen to me right now young lady!" I rolled my eyes and pulled out my earbuds. I could still hear Stone Sour blaring from my lap.

"Since when was I a Holmes?" I retorted, looking away from him back to the window. "And why are we in a taxi? You don't take cabs." He was about to answer when I cut him off. "Oh, wait, I know. You don't want to alarm and or annoy your brother by pulling up in your car, which would introduce the option of being ignored. But, using a cab, there is a higher chance of someone actually opening the door and therefore a higher chance that he'll take my sorry ass off your hands."

"Don't use that tone with me," he said.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," I snorted. "You suddenly become 'daddy' once Mum dies and you expect me to listen to you? Fat chance, Mycroft." He sighed and turned away, giving up on trying to talk to me. I put my earbuds back in and watched the streets go by.

I was going to live with his brother, Sherlock. When he came to pick me up at Mum's funeral, the first words he said were, "You look like a girl version of my brother." So I guessed Sherlock had wavy dark hair down to mid-back and bright eyes. Apparently Mycroft was "too busy with government business" to look after me. That was just fine. Let you down once, they'll always let you down. That's how dads were; in my opinion at least.

I watched London pass by my window. Small shops, cafes, apartments. Cars, cabs, busses, bikes. Business people, drug dealers, teenagers, beggars. I saw all of it. I looked up as the cab slowed down. There was no light or traffic, so we were here. I looked out the window opposite me and saw an apartment door labeled 221B. I took in all surrounding landmarks to get a feel for where I was.

Mycroft got out of the car and I followed him. It felt awkward. Not because of anything I did or that I was wearing jeans, a cami, combat boots, and a hoodie, but because I was wearing that while the man I was with was wearing a suit and tie. He knocked on the door and an older woman opened it.

"Mycroft," she said. "Come in, come in." He nodded at her in greeting as I followed him silently. The woman turned her attention upstairs and shouted, "Sherlock! You have company!"

"I'm busy," an irritated voice yelled back. The woman shook her head and motioned for us to follow her upstairs.

"It's your brother and a friend," she said as we entered the flat. A man with short curly dark hair and bright eyes looked up from a newspaper. Huh, I did look kind of like him.

"Mycroft," he said. "Who's that with you?"

"Your niece," Mycroft replied.

"I don't have a niece," Sherlock said.

"Thank you, for denying my existence," I muttered sarcastically.

"Denying your existence? Of course not," he said. Damn, he spoke fast. "How could I possibly deny your existence? You're standing right in front of me!" He looked me over carefully, his eyes darting all over the place. "Teenager, obviously grieving. Worn earbuds indicate that you listen to music often. The music you listen to is very special to you, based on the way you hold your music player protectively even while it's in your pocket. That sweatshirt comforts you, shown by the way it's wrapped around you but not zipped. Because your eyes are darting around so quickly, I'd also say you're very observant. Just like me."

"You have a habit of telling people things they already know, don't you?" I asked. I did one last sweep of the room with my eyes before moving on. "Based on the papers lying around and the article pulled up on that laptop, you're either a cop or a detective. But, since a cop wouldn't get their assignments from the paper, you're a detective; a private one at that. The full garbage can indicates that you don't take every case that crosses your path. There are too many doubles of essential items in the flat for it just to be you, so you have a flatmate. Material peeking out under your sleeve means nicotine patch, therefore a used-to-be smoker who's trying to break the habit."

"Good, you actually pay attention to your surroundings," he said. "What is she doing here?"

"I want you to take her, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I don't have the time to look after her."

"I'm not a kid person," Sherlock said.

"And I'm not an uncle person," I shot back. "And yet you're stuck with a _teenager_ and I'm stuck with an uncle. Fair trade."

"We'll see," he said. "We're going to Scotland Yard. I've got an interesting case that I want you to try and solve. If you can help with cases and not just drag me down, you can stay." I heard the door downstairs open. Well, close actually. I couldn't hear it open over my music.

"Sherlock!" a man's voice yelled up. Sherlock's flatmate, I guessed. "Why is there a cab on hold outside?"

"You held a cab for us? Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock said and walked past us. I followed him out. We passed a man downstairs as Sherlock said, "Come on, John. We're going to Scotland Yard." John followed us into the cab and Sherlock gave the driver directions.

"And who are you?" John asked.

"Sierra," I replied.

"My niece, apparently," Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry, your _niece_?" John said.

"Mycroft has a daughter," Sherlock said.

" 'Mycroft has a daughter' is sitting right here," I sighed. We sat in silence for a minute.

"What are you listening to?" John asked out of the blue.

"American heavy metal," I replied in a monotone as the song switched Tired by Stone Sour. I fully expected him to nod awkwardly and change the subject like everyone else did, but he didn't.

"Can I have a listen?" he asked. I couldn't help but be a little surprised. Everyone usually thought I was either lying, or too strange for them to care. I nodded and handed him one of the earbuds and he put it up to his ear. We listened to my music on shuffle for the rest of the ride.

* * *

When we arrived at Scotland Yard, the Detective Inspector led us on a five minute walk to an area taped off by the police. There was a body of a woman lying facedown on the pavement. She was wearing an expensive business dress with a dark overcoat. Her body was caked in dried blood, but her jewelry was spotless.

"Why did you bring a child here?" the Detective Inspector, Lestrade, asked Sherlock.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't speak," I said softly, incredible aware of the volume of my voice as I turned up my music to block out all other noise. "I may not be able to hear you, but your lips flapping distract me." I leaned forward to examine the body further.

The blood seemed to come from various small puncture wounds around the body; the neck, both wrists, just under the ribcage, behind both knees, and the base of the spine. The part of this that bugged me the most was the spotless jewelry, not a drop of blood on any of it. This held so much of my attention that I almost missed her hair chopped off and scattered around the body. I noticed her neck angled oddly and removed my earbuds so I could hold a conversation.

"The blood loss isn't what killed her," I said bluntly. "She died when someone snapped her neck, removed her jewelry, and put it back on when the blood dried. I would rule this out as just a murder, but it's too curious."

"Good," Sherlock said. "Only took you twice the amount of time it took me."

I rolled my eyes and continued, "I need her job and hobbies. Then I can get somewhere with this."

"She was a high school technology teacher," Lestrade said. "Danced on her own time."

"That's it," I said. "She must have had a chip or a drive that someone wanted. Someone tried to slash at her neck from behind with a sharp weapon. But, as a dancer, she was athletic enough to lean forward, saving her neck but losing her hair. Though dodging several more times, she did get snipped in various places before her attacker got frustrated and hit her in the back of the neck with a blunt weapon, thus killing her. Her jewelry was then removed as her killer looked for the computer chip. After not finding it where it was supposed to be, in her left gold bracelet, he put the jewelry back after the blood had dried. So, the chip is still back in her flat."

"Very good," Sherlock said. "You've earned your keep. We've given them the information they need. We're going home."

"No no, not yet," I said. "Now I'm interested. Take me to her flat, I want to find this computer chip."

"We're going home," Sherlock repeated himself.

"I'll grab a cab afterwards," I said. "I'll be back before morning.

I put my headphones in without the music playing so I could hear around me without it being noticed that I was listening. Lestrade started leading me away, but I heard John tell Sherlock accusingly, "You don't trust her."

"Not as far as I can throw her," Sherlock replied.

"Which is actually pretty far," John pointed out.

"She's Mycroft's daughter," Sherlock went on, ignoring John's comment. "I wouldn't put it past him to have her spy on me."

I gave no sign of having heard their interaction; just turned the volume on my music back on and followed Lestrade in silence.

* * *

"Give me twenty minutes," I told Lestrade as we walked into the flat. The place was already crawling with police and detectives muttering to each other. I sighed, "In silence, please." I walked straight into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. She would've kept the chip somewhere close to her. I turned on the bedside lamp and looked carefully around the room. Very clean, not many places to hide something.

A black spot on the lampshade caught my attention as my eyes returned to the bedside table. It seemed odd that a woman as tidy as her would leave something like that there. Taking a closer look, I grinned. Genius woman, she was.

I turned on the overhead light and turned of the lamp. Removing the lampshade, I inspected the lightbulb further. Sure enough, there it was. The computer chip in the lightbulb, somehow not fried from the head. I unscrewed the lightbulb and put the lampshade down on the bed.

I carefully shattered the glass over the bed so it made as little noise as possible. I grabbed the still hot computer chip and shoved it in my pocket.

"You are a smart child," a voice behind me said in mock impressment.

"I thought I asked for silence," I replied softly, turning around. The man in front of me was most certainly _not_ a detective. "This is a private investigation, sir. You need to leave."

"But I am investigating," he said, trying to sound truthful. The "trustworthy" look on his face was too forced.

"You're lying," I deadpanned. I looked him over carefully, raking my mind for any memories that might tell me who he was. "You're name is Mroiarty, isn't it?" I asked as I recalled listening in on a phone conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock. "And you sent someone else to kill that woman. All for this." I held up the chip.

A hand covered my mouth from behind and I closed my fist around the chip as hard as I could. I kicked backwards, my foot connecting with a leg. I heard a grunt of pain, but whoever it was didn't loosen their grip. I kept gripping the chip. In my struggle, I glimpsed a flash of silver. This was the guy who killed the teacher.

With my free hand, I unplugged my headphones from my mp3 player. If this broke, Sherlock owed me a new one. I threw it as hard as I could. It hit the door with a large clatter. By the time Lestrade rushed in, Moriarty was gone. I was still struggling against the man with the sword, gripping the computer chip for my life.

"Hey," Lestrade ordered, pulling out his gun. "Let her go." The man let go of me and jumped out the window. Lucky for him, we were only on the second floor. He was running already by the time I made it to the window, having already shoved the chip back into my pocket. "Did you see him?"

"No," I replied in a monotone. I never liked conveying emotion through my voice. If I did, it would've been shaking. I walked over to the door and picked up my mp3 player. Plugging my headphones back in, I gladly realized that it still worked. "I'm done here. I'll catch a cab back." I walked out to the street and hailed a cab.

I could swear Moriarty watched me the whole way home.

* * *

**A/N: So that's chapter one! Please review, I love knowing what people think. If you liked it, why? If you didn't like it, why? If it was so so, why? What do you think about my character?**


	2. A Day Out

**A/N: Here's chapter 2! I've decided to update this every Monday for regularity's sake. And a shout-out to ****Durindwarf****, your review made my day when I read it ****Thank you^^**

* * *

_A Day Out_

* * *

_Previously…_

_"Hey," Lestrade ordered, pulling out his gun. "Let her go." The man let go of me and jumped out the window. Lucky for him, we were only on the second floor. He was running already by the time I made it to the window, having already shoved the chip back into my pocket. "Did you see him?"_

_"No," I replied in a monotone. I never liked conveying emotion through my voice. If I did, it would've been shaking. I walked over to the door and picked up my mp3 player. Plugging my headphones back in, I gladly realized that it still worked. "I'm done here. I'll catch a cab back." I walked out to the street and hailed a cab._

_I could swear Moriarty watched me the whole way home._

* * *

I walked into the flat and up to Sherlock, who was sitting at John's laptop. Without a word, I dropped the chip on the keyboard and sat on the couch, grabbing a random book off of the ground and starting it.

"What's this?" Sherlock said, sounding bored.

"The chip that the teacher was killed for," I replied, sounding equally bored. Before I knew it, he was pulling up the chip's contents on John's laptop.

"It's building plans," he said, sounding slightly surprised. Building plans? I stood up and confiscated the laptop, removing the chip and shutting down the file.

"No matter what it is, that woman thought it was worth dying for," I said. "I'm giving it to Mycroft."

"You and he don't get along," he observed.

"Congratulations," I said sarcastically. "You get a gold sticker." I walked back to the door and left, snagging a cab.

When I got to Mycroft's office, I walked in, dropped the chip on his desk while ignoring him completely, and left. The cab I took was still outside, so I got back in and went back to the flat. Just like that.

"Why did you give the chip to Mycroft?" Sherlock ordered.

"Because technology that someone would die to protect belongs in the hands of the government," I said dryly, lying down on the couch and picking up the random book again.

"Do you even know what you're reading?" he asked.

"Don't know, don't care," I said without taking my attention away from the book. "Just bored." I looked up at him. "And unlike you, I don't shoot holes in Mrs. Hudson's walls when I'm bored."

"It's not specific to Mrs. Hudson's walls," he pointed out.

"Sorry, I don't shoot _anything_ when I'm bored," I corrected myself, returning to my book. He started spurting random information about the book, but I ignored him.

"Did I spoil the book for you yet?" he asked.

"I haven't been listening, quite honestly," I replied.

"Not listening to me is a good way to get yourself killed," he said. I had a feeling he was right about that. I couldn't shake the feeling that Moriarty was still watching me. It was _really_ creepy.

"When I first got here, you said I was a teenager," I said, trying to change the subject. It was time to play the 'Let's Test Sherlock' game. "How old am I exactly?"

"Are you really trying to test me?" he asked, still sounding bored.

"Who knows?"

"Being withdrawn like you are is generally an implication of a younger teen," he said, most likely just trying to stop his boredom. "But you're grieving, which can cause anyone to be withdrawn no matter what the age. Your face and height indicate that you're an older teen. That is more trustworthy in this case because you are obviously grieving. I would say mother, but there's more behind it than that. You're no younger than fifteen. Grief is blocking out the age completely, so I'm pinning you at sixteen."

"Off," she said, turning her attention back to her book before continuing, "You were still a teenager when I was born. I _am_ here because I am required to have a guardian, but not for much longer. I'm seventeen, eighteen in two weeks."

"I knew that," he said, trying to patch up his mistake. "I was just making sure you were paying attention."

"Liar," I said.

"Did you just call him a liar?" John asked as he walked in with the groceries. "He doesn't take well to that."

"Only one person I know of does," I replied. "Oh, Sherlock, I meant to tell you. I ran into one of your acquaintances at the teacher's flat. I'm pretty sure he's now stalking me."

"Who?" he asked, his face scrunching in confusion. I bet it was the stalker part that threw him off of all of his ideas.

"Well, he didn't exactly give a name," I pondered. "I guessed, but he didn't give me a yes or a no either. Although, I'm pretty sure it was Moriarty."

"I'm sorry, _what_?" John said, surprised.

"I said, I ran into Moriarty earlier tonight," I repeated. "And I'm pretty sure he's stalking me."

"What makes you think that he's stalking you?" Sherlock asked.

"Gut feeling," I replied. "Which is generally reliable. And the fact that someone like _him_ would call anyone else smart. Plus, I saw him out the window several times during the cab ride home."

"Why would he stalk _you_?" he muttered, not intending for me to hear. Oops, I did.

"Because I escaped?" I tried. "I dunno. He made his buddy with the sword try to kill me for that chip."

"One, that wouldn't have been his 'buddy'," he said. "His client, yes. Buddy, no. As for the chip, he didn't want it. Maybe his client was after it, but he couldn't care less about it. How _did_ you escape?"

"Like you couldn't figure it out yourself?" I teased. "I was in a flat full of police. I threw my mp3 player at a wall to make enough noise so Lestrade came in. By then, Moriarty was already gone and the guy with the sword had jumped out the window and run off."

"Where was the chip?" John asked.

"In a lightbulb." I rolled over on the couch, turning my back to them. "Now I've been up since five in the morning and it's now two in the morning and I need sleep to function properly, unlike some people who can stay up for days and still think straight. So, if you don't mind, I'm going to sleep now." I switched my music playlist to one of calmer songs and turned the volume up.

I couldn't sleep in silence.

* * *

I woke up late the next morning. John and Sherlock had both gone out. I lazily stood up and walked over to the fridge. I needed food.

I opened the door, only to be met with a human heart covered in plastic wrap. Inside, I was freaking out and screaming. In reality, I just sighed and closed the door. I'd just have to go to the café downstairs.

I pulled my mp3 player out of my pocket and turned off my calm playlist, which had been playing on loop since I fell asleep, and switched to my normal one. My reasons for using an old-fashioned mp3 player instead of the newer stuff were simple. The older ones didn't need to be charged, they just used batteries. I didn't have the patience to wait for it to charge, so the batteries were much more convenient.

Sherlock and John came running up the stairs. Sherlock looked incredibly happy.

"What, got a good case or something?" I mumbled, still half-asleep.

"Just solved one," he replied. "Your swordsman has been arrested." He was being way too energetic. Sure, it was simply noon to them, gut I just woke up and that's too much energy for me just waking up.

"Calm down, I'm still too out of it to follow energy right now," I whined, surprising myself with how much emotion came through. My eyes almost widened in shock. That had never happened before. I was annoyed at most. He was so annoying and know-it-all-y that my frustration bled out through my voice. Now _that _just pissed me off.

"Says the girl listening to screamo," John pointed out. I shifted my attention to my music for a second to focus on the second. Yes, I enjoyed my music, but it was generally background noise. I needed it to focus. Without it, my attention would dart around. Everything would distract me from everything else. My music was a necessity for me to function.

"I'm currently listening to an acoustic, actually," I replied. Sherlock picked up his violin and started playing.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked him. "We just _solved_ the case, not got it."

"Just wondering what was so important about that chip," Sherlock said. "It was nothing but building plans."

"Make it stop," I groaned.

"Make what stop?" he asked.

"The violin," I said. "Generally I'm all for violins in heavy bands; take Skillet for example. But this is just pushing it." He pulled my earbuds out of my ears, letting them dangle to the floor, and kept playing.

I put my headphones back in and sighed, "You're disrupting _my_ thinking."

"This is how I think," he replied evenly.

"You could pick something a little quieter than the violin," I muttered.

"What about you?" he asked, finally setting down his cursed instrument. "What do you do that helps_ you _think?"

"You've already seen it," I replied simply.

"Already seen it," he muttered, more for himself than for us. "What have you done since you got here?"

He went on to list every single thing I've done since I met him while John said, "Your music." Sherlock stopped talking. "American heavy metal helps you think."

"Thank you," I said. "Not everything has to be clever or odd. Granted, American heavy metal is a bit odd, but at least it doesn't disrupt others because there are these things called _headphones._" Sherlock picked his violin back up.

"Too bad." He started playing again. I blocked it out by turning up my music.

"I'm going for a walk," I muttered. I needed time on my own. I tied my hair back due to lack of brushing, and left the flat.

The first thing I needed was food. I stepped into the café next door. Instantly, I tried to step back out to find another one. Too late.

"It's Sierra, right?" Lestrade asked from the table right next to the door. I nodded. He motioned for me to have a seat. "Come have a brew." I walked over to his table and sat down, removing my earbuds. "So you've moved in with Sherlock and Dr. Watson."

"For now," I replied. Ugh, being friendly. It sickened me. I had bad experiences in the past with being social and having friends. So, in return, my heart and emotions became their own sealed away treasures, protected by a lock and key in a glass jar. "Just until I turn eighteen in a couple weeks. Then I'm planning on getting my own place and a job."

"We could always use your help at Scotland Yard," he said.

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you," I said with a fake smile. "I might just take you up on that; there's no way I'd go to Mycroft for money."

"He's difficult to get along with," he agreed.

"Which 'he?'" I asked. "We just mentioned three 'he's in ten seconds. In my opinion, John's the only one who _isn't_ difficult to get along with."

"Agreed," he said. "So what are you doing out alone?"

"Getting away for a few hours. His violin is driving me insane."

"Just the violin?"

"And the excitement about the case," I continued. "And the human heart in the fridge. And-"

"Human heart?" he interrupted.

"In the fridge," I confirmed.

"Do you know what for?"

"I never know anything when it comes to Sherlock," I said. I stood up. "I enjoyed our conversation, Detective, but I have errands to run."

* * *

A big city wasn't the best place for fresh air. Car exhaust, sewers; the air was anything but fresh. Either way, it was better than being stuck in 221B Baker Street with Sherlock and his violin. I didn't particularly mind John; it was just my uncle who drove me crazy. Spend too much time with him and I would end up jumping out of a window.

I looked around my surroundings and noticed a small clothing shop across the street. I crossed quickly and walked in, looking at the clothes curiously. A jacket on the other side of the store caught my attention. It looked and felt like leather, but it was white. Cool. It also had a lot of pockets which was a plus.

I ended up purchasing the jacket, two pairs of jeans, a few camis of different colors, a new pair of combat boots, and a nice-ish dress for special occasions.

There was my new wardrobe.

After handing the cashier the money, I grabbed my bags and walked outside, ready to head back to the flat. When I walked in, Sherlock was waiting for me with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Where have you been?" he asked sternly. That was a long shot, I could tell.

"Strict doesn't suit you," I said, putting my bags down on the couch.

"Did you get the groceries?" he asked, curiously trying to look in my bags. I slapped him away lightly.

"John got them yesterday," I reminded him. "So no."

"Did he?" he said half-heartedly. Did he really not pay attention to what other people said or did unless it helped with a case? Selfish. "What John said earlier about music being how you think. You're _always_ listening to your music."

"I need it," I replied. "My attention tends to dart around; everything distracting me from everything. My music keeps me focused. Plus, I'm always thinking. You're also always thinking, so you don't play violin when you think. It's that you missed something or that you don't have an answer." He looked baffled at my blatant insult. "And _that's_ the truth."

* * *

He grounded me. He actually grounded me. He took my mp3 player and wouldn't let me leave the flat. His loss.

"You did it _wrong_, Sherlock," I said, just trying to piss him off. "You take my music or you don't let me leave, not both."

"Why the hell not?" he snapped, finally irritated by my babbling. For someone who liked to talk, he sure didn't like anyone else talking.

"Because you're stuck with me," I pointed out. "And I'm jumpy and distracted-y and unable to shut up without my music."

"Oh God, shut up!" He tossed my mp3 player to me. "You're still not allowed to leave for the rest of the day." I smirked slightly in triumph at getting my mp3 player back, but he didn't seem to notice.

John did, though. He smiled and shook his head as he read a newspaper.

"What, for telling you you were wrong?" I asked. "Not fair at all." I put my headphones in.

"Life's not fair," Sherlock said. "And you can't go off on your own tomorrow, either."

"What?"

"Two days."

"Come on."

"Three days. Shall I continue?"

"Sherlock, don't you think you're being a bit unreasonable?" John cut in.

"I'll do as I like," Sherlock replied. "She insults me, she gets consequences."

"Now that is just silly," I said. "I corrected you and told you that you don't have an answer more often than you'd like to admit. That's all."

"Four." I scowled and sat on the couch. I quickly regained myself, though. Scowling showed emotion. No showing emotion. It was something about Sherlock though. My uncle made my emotions show, just a little. Like he was somehow cracking the glass jar and letting my feelings bleed through the cracks. It was really fucking annoying. "Why don't you like showing emotions?"

"What, magically in my head now?" I retorted.

"Five."

"I don't like people reading me."

"You're good at hiding your feelings," he said.

"Sherlock Holmes, complimenting someone else?" I asked with a fake gasp.

"Six. Don't make it a week." I groaned and laid back, ready to sleep for the next week to escape it.

* * *

**A/N: Yay! Chapter 2! Okay, so the title of the entire story becomes a little clearer now. Well, not a little. It practically jumps in front of you and slaps you in the face. Well, it had to be done. Now you know the deal with that little button. I thrive on feedback, so clicky clicky! \/**


	3. Silence in Death: Part 1

**A/N: Here's Chapter 3! ^^ Let me know if you think it was a bit rushed, I'm new at crime solving stories**

* * *

_Silence in Death: Part 1_

* * *

_Previously..._

"_I don't like people reading me."_

"_You're good at hiding your feelings," he said._

"_Sherlock Holmes, complimenting someone else?" I asked with a fake gasp._

"_Six. Don't make it a week." I groaned and laid back, ready to sleep for the next week to escape it._

* * *

"Dear God, John, help me," I said, pacing back and forth. This was driving me mead. Three days straight. That's how long Sherlock's kept me here. I still had three more days, too. There was no way I'd survive! He and John came and went as they pleased, but nope. Not me. "I'm bored."

"Sherlock's gun is in that drawer," John replied, motioning to a drawer across the room. I looked from the drawer to the wall to him.

"I don't shoot walls when I'm bored," I said. "I'm not _that_ similar to him."

"Well then I can't help you."

"I need a... a... a... a rubicks cube or a puzzle book or a crossword or something!" I said, frustrated.

"Here." John tossed me a sudoku book. I sat down and started filling it out quickly.

Less than an hour later I was already back to pacing.

"Don't you have a friend you can phone or something?" he asked.

"Nope," I replied. This time he tossed me a scrambled up rubicks cube. I caught it and sat down, busily trying to unscramble it.

"We've got a case!" Sherlock yelled, rushing up the stairs three steps at a time. "And oh boy is it a fun one!" In frustration, both at him and the rubicks cube, I threw it at his face. He caught it without blinking.

"Sherlock, you're killing me here," I said. "Please let me go with you."

"Fine," he said. "But no talking unless I say so." Not even thinking about it, I nodded hastily and grabbed my new jacket. I needed to get out of the flat. "The murder was at a local club. Off we go!" I had to hurry after him to make sure he didn't take off in the cab without me. John followed behind a little more slowly.

And off we went.

* * *

The body looked normal at first. It was when I got close that all of the oddities stood out.

First of all, it was a middle-aged man. Short, chubby, buzz cut. Loose white work shirt and black trousers. Standard work uniform. A single bullet in the center of his forehead. The fingers on his right hand were broken; the gun that killed him was right next to him. Black thread was laid across his face; from the bullet hole to the chin. On his chest was a splatter of blue paint.

"Was he a painter?" John asked.

"No," a man I didn't know said. "Don't touch anything, Holmes, and I mean it."

"Shut up," Sherlock and I both said, though I left off the "Anderson" at the end. So that man was called Anderson. I already didn't like him.

"You too, Sierra," Sherlock added. "I already told you not to speak." I rolled my eyes and continued examining the body while he babbled about the string; "Black thread lain across the face dead center. Black is normally associated with death. And the string's exact placement over the mouth; no one would be able to speak with something heavy through that exact spot. So-"

"Silence in death," I muttered.

"Sierra, I told you to shut up," he snapped. His eyes lit up as if he just got an idea. "Wait, what did you just say?"

"Silence in death," I said a little louder.

"You're a _genius_ Sierra!" he exclaimed, embracing me in a bear hug.

"Sherlock Holmes PUT ME DOWN!" I screeched as he picked me up, letting my surprise slip into my voice on accident.

"You just showed emotion," he said. "Ha! Got you."

"Oh shut up," I retorted. "I'm not a robot. I'm just not open."

"Whatever," he said as a clear clue that he was ignoring me. "Now about the 'silence in death,' he probably knew something that his killer didn't want him to. Therefore, the only way to ensure that he didn't talk was to kill him."

"But the paint," John pointed out.

"He knew something about artwork, then," Anderson said.

"Shut up, Anderson," Sherlock and I both said.

"He already left a clue with the thread," Sherlock countered. "He wouldn't leave another with the paint." I crouched down and put a finger on the paint.

"I said not to touch anything," Anderson snapped. I didn't respond; for I was too busy retracting my hand with a small yelp. I dashed to the bathroom and rinsed it off of my finger, cradling my hand carefully. I walked back into the main room though my finger still stung.

"Highly acidic," I said, not daring to suck on my finger no matter how much I wanted to. Who knew what the remnants of the acid could do if it got into my system? "I wouldn't dare get close enough to inhale it, so no smelling it. Based on how it felt, the paint is laced with sulfuric acid."

"Well that changes things," John said.

"John, Sierra, we're going back to the flat," Sherlock said, turning to the door. "I have some thinking to do."

"No," I groaned. "Not the violin."

"Come on," he said, not taking no for an answer. I hesitantly followed him and John out to the street. We all got into a cab. Even with my music, the silence had too much tension.

"What do you think he knew?" I asked cautiously. If Sherlock wanted to think, he most likely didn't want to talk. Too bad.

"The paint let normal people suggest art," Sherlock replied, actually deciding to tell us what he was thinking. John and I secretly exchanged surprised glances that he didn't snap at me instead. "But the sulfuric acid changes it all. I'd say some sort of chemical formula."

"So we just need to figure out the formula," John summed up.

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "Which is why I need to think. John, Sierra, tomorrow I want you to search his flat."

By the time we made it back to the flat, it was already dark out. We went inside and I flopped onto the couch, glaring at the rubicks cube on the floor a meter or two away.

Sherlock playing his violin kept me awake incredibly late.

* * *

The next day, I didn't have much time to sleep in. Sherlock woke me up by shooting the wall, and John gave me ten minutes before we left. I quickly changed into dark skinny jeans, a dark red cami, my jacket and boots, and changed my playlist. I grabbed a bagel from the café on our way out. When we got in the cab, I was about to start a conversation but John beat me to it.

"How do you hear us?" he asked, motioning to my mp3 player.

"Practice," I replied. "I'm easily distracted, but my music helps me concentrate. I'm used to holding a conversation over it. Usually I can hear slightly, but sometimes I'm stuck with reading lips and facial expressions." He nodded and we sat in silence for the rest of the ride.

When we arrived at the man's flat, Lestrade was waiting for us.

"His name was Daniel Wilson," he said. "He was a self-employed chemist." I nodded to let him know that I heard him and stepped inside.

Let's just say this place made Sherlock's kitchen look like a hotel room.

Not only was it full of bottles of chemicals and strange specimens, but they were strewn carelessly across the floor. I looked around at broken bottles, leaving chemical pooling on the floor, at the random animal parts scattered around, and at the notes everywhere.

"Don't step in anything," I warned John as I carefully advanced through the flat. Looking at the notes on the big table in the center of the room, I noticed part of a note ripped away. I guessed it was the final equations that contained the formula. Several papers down into the pile, I found a list of names and home addresses.

"What a mess," John muttered. I looked up to see him carefully step over a puddle of yellow slime.

"He didn't leave it like this," I said, grabbing the whole pile of notes and dropping them into one of my old shopping bags that I brought with me. "His killer came and stole the important notes before the police could find them. We could probably re-create whatever the formula was using these notes and the list of contacts I just found."

"How do you know this mess is from a break in?" Lestrade asked as he stepped inside as well.

"That puddle there," I replied, pointing to a watery purple liquid. "The floor under and around it is dissolving, meaning it's a corrosive substance. A chemist like Wilson wouldn't leave something like that just lying around in a puddle on the floor. That's a sign that someone else was here and that they were looking for something in a rush, not caring what was spilled, broken, or tossed around."

"And you got all that form a puddle?" Lestrade asked. I nodded.

"You _are_ just like him," John muttered.

"Am not," I countered defensively. "I don't shoot walls when I'm bored. I don't run random experiments on body parts. I actually think about how what I say might affect other people's feelings."

"Minor details," he replied.

"I've got all of his notes in this bag," I continued, ignoring John's last comment. "All of the important ones, at least. We can study them with Sherlock back at the flat." I turned to Lestrade as I exited the building. "Thank you for helping us, Detective." John and I got into a cab and headed back to the flat.

* * *

As soon as I opened the door, Sherlock's violin instantly irritated me. Had he been playing all day? Didn't it _ever _get boring?

"Sherlock shut up!" I yelled as I walked upstairs. "We've got work to do!"

"Oh thank God," he said as we entered the flat. "I need something to do."

"He was a chemist," I said, pulling the notes out of the bag. I slipped the contact list into my pocket. "These are all of the notes I could find on the formula he was killed for."

"Yes, something fun," he said, grabbing the notes and rushing into the kitchen to figure it out. "You both just be quiet and let me work."

"Interview Wilson's contacts?" I whispered to John.

"Do you even need to ask?" he replied. We left the flat silently and looked at the contact list.

"Who do we go for first?" I asked while we walked. We had decided to walk to the nearest contact instead of taking another cab.

"This one," he said, pointing to a name on the list. "Angela Stevenson. She lives just a few blocks away."

"Awesome," I said, folding up the list and stuffing it in my pocket. "Let's go."

When we made it to Angela's flat, we rang the doorbell. There was no response. Hesitantly, I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I opened the door.

A woman looking to be in her early twenties was lying face-down on the white couch. The whole flat was white. Except for the red on the couch under her head and the yellow under her chest. I carefully walked over and rolled her over.

It was exactly the same as what happened to Daniel Wilson, except the paint was yellow this time. fingers on her right hand broken with the gun on the floor. Bullet hole in the center of the forehead. The black thread was stuck in the pool of blood on the couch.

Hesitantly, I reached out and touched the yellow paint. Surprised by the lack of burning, I rubbed it between my fingers and sniffed it cautiously. Silver nitrate.

"Is it the same thing?" John asked.

"Pretty much," I replied. "The only difference is the paint. This one's silver nitrate instead of sulfuric acid. Phone Lestrade. We need to get to one of these people before they're all dead."

* * *

Third time's a charm. I had never believed that statement until John and I knocked on the door of Simon Johnson and it actually opened. The man who opened it looked to be in his seventies, tall and thin. He wore a long brown coat and glasses.

"Excuse us, sir," John started. "But would you happen to be Simon Johnson?"

"Yes, I am," the old man replied. "What's it to you?"

"I'm John Watson," John said, offering Simon his hand. "And this is Sierra Holmes. We're here to talk to you about the deaths of Daniel Wilson and Angela Stevenson."

"I don't know who those people are," Simon said hurriedly, looking like he was ready to slam the door in our faces.

"But sir, we found your name on contact lists in both of there flats," I argued in a sweet tone. He looked conflicted over what to answer.

"Alright, come in," he said. "Quickly, quickly." He rushed us in and offered us a place to sit. John and I sat on the couch while Simon sat in an armchair opposite.

"We are under the assumption that these two people were killed due to the knowledge of some kind of formula," John said. "Do you know anything about this?"

"Are you people detectives?" Simon answered a question with a question.

"Yes," I replied. He looked ready to bolt for the door. "I assure you, Mr. Johnson, that you are safe with us unless you were the one that pulled the trigger." He seemed to calm down a little.

"There are twelve of us," he said hesitantly. "Ten now that Wilson and Stevenson are dead. We were conducting an experiment is all, I swear."

"That experiment got two people killed," John said. "What is it?"

"We were running tests with nuclear energy," Simon continued shakily. "But along the way, we stumbled across this complex formula, you see. We didn't know exactly what it did, we still don't. But, theoretically, dumping the substance on a nuclear bomb would render the weapon unusable."

"That's it?" I said. "Someone's trying to kill you because you found something that could supposedly combat nuclear weapons?" Simon nodded.

"Sierra," John said. He sounded slightly worried. "Sherlock's back at the flat. Alone. Trying to re-create the formula."

"That is not good," I said. I stood up. "Sorry for just walking in and out on you, Mr. Johnson, but our friend might be in danger."

"Oh no, go right ahead," Simon replied. "I wouldn't stop you from helping a friend."

"Thank you," John said. The two of us rushed out and got the first cab we saw. We started back to the flat and he asked, "Uncle turned to friend?"

"He hasn't earned the title of family yet," I replied. "I don't just give out trust to people who claim to be family."

"Why not?"

"Because everyone I care about dies," I said. "When I was six my best friend died from tetanus. When I was nine my other best friend died in a mall shooting. Then, I stopped making friends with new people, so it was just me and James. When I was twelve – he was fourteen – his mother died of a heart attack. Then we stopped talking. We started hanging out again when I was fifteen. Two months later, he died in a car crash on my sixteenth birthday. Then I didn't really talk at all. Then Mum died. And I decided that if I didn't show the universe that I cared about someone, then the universe wouldn't take them away."

"Rough childhood," John said. I nodded. We didn't speak for the rest of the ride, but it wasn't awkward or full of tension. It was comfortable silence.

When we returned to the flat, I opened the door to a gunshot. John and I ran upstairs without thinking.

* * *

**A/N: There's chapter three, and the first in the two-part Silence in Death case^^ So let me know what you think!**


	4. Silence in Death: Part 2

**A/N: I know I'm incredibly late with this update T.T I'm sorry! I've been… um… lazy. And somewhat busy. And now obsessed with a hard rock band from Japan -.- and another show that I'm totally not blaming anyone for for the obsession *cough* DEA *cough cough* Death Note *cough* Anyways. Here's the end of Silence in Death! And yes, read correctly, two "for"s belong there.**

* * *

_Silence in Death: Part 2_

* * *

_Previously…_

_When we returned to the flat, I opened the door to a gunshot. John and I ran upstairs without thinking._

* * *

"Sherlock!" John yelled, rushing up the steps. I followed him rather quickly.

"What?" an irritated Sherlock yelled back. We ran into the flat to see him sitting on the couch with a gun in his hand.

"What was that gunshot?" I asked.

"Bored," he replied simply, shooting at a smiley face in the wall.

"You scared us half to death," John accused. I nodded in agreement.

"We found another dead," I pointed out. "Same deal. Except the paint was yellow with silver nitrate instead of blue with sulfuric acid."

"And the fingers?" Sherlock inquired.

"Gun too," I replied with a nod. "My theory is that the killer broke the fingers, forcing the victims to drop their guns, then picked up the gun and shot them."

"The paint?" John asked.

"To surprise the victims," Sherlock said. "The surprise that came with it caused a loosened grip on the gun, allowing fingers to be broken and guns to be stolen."

"And they left us a clue with the string _and_ the chemicals?" I said. "Who does that?"

"Motiarty."

"He doesn't get his hands dirty," I countered.

"He has other people do his dirty work," Sherlock explained. "But he's the mastermind. I can feel it. Only he would leave clues like that, things only we could pick up on."

"How do we stop it then?" John asked.

"I made the formula," Sherlock said. "Now we just wait."

* * *

One question. Of all times, why did he wait until the middle of the night to come? One in the morning, and there was a murderer in the kitchen. Bloody marvelous.

So, I grabbed Sherlock's gun and slowly walked into the kitchen. The tall figure was rummaging through Sherlock's chemicals. Smoker; I could smell it all over.

I fired a warning shot at the guy's head, waking up John and Sherlock in the process. I dove away from the doorframe as a splash of purple paint flew into the room. I could smell it already.

"Alkylated triazole!" I called out to alert them what was in the paint. Nasty stuff. Can't even stand near it without needing treatment for inhaling it. I think the distance is 25 meters away to be relatively safe. And here it is inches away from my face. I leaned into the doorframe and shot two more shots, but whoever it was was out of sight. Carefully, with the gun ready, I stepped into the room, looking around.

"What is all this racket so early?" I heard Mrs. Hudson ask.

"Stay out of the flat!" Sherlock yelled at her as he ran into the main room.

In a bedsheet. With a gun.

John followed close behind in his bathrobe; also with a gun.

I motioned for them to come in but to be quiet. They actually listened to me and came quietly, avoiding the purple alkylated triazole paint. I saw a movement on the other side of the kitchen and shot at it. I missed. But I hit the heart in the fridge.

Oops.

This time John fired a shot, also missing. Sherlock's shot missed as well. Was this guy a ninja or something? I could understand not hitting him myself, but Sherlock and John had experience with this!

I flattened against the wall to avoid another splatter of acid paint. Not fast enough, though. I cried out as it came into contact with my hand that was holding the gun, which I dropped instantly. I kicked the gun out of the room so the Killer-In-The-Kitchen couldn't pick it up and use it.

"Police and military with government ties," Sherlock said, using his and John's backgrounds to an advantage, as well as their connections with Mycroft.

"And an anti-social teenager," I mumbled. "Thanks for remembering me."

"I did remember you," he replied, switching on the lights. Instantly, all guns were trained on the man by the fridge. "You're our government tie."

"You know Mycroft better than I do," I said with a slight laugh, bordering on hysteria from the pain in my arm. I turned to the table full of Sherlock's chemicals. "Which one's hydraulic acid?"

"Green bottle, red stripe," he said, almost instinctively. I snatched the bottle and threw it at the man. It hit him square in the chest and shattered, the corrosive liquid soaking through his shirt and onto his skin immediately. He fell back with a cry, releasing the papers that he had in his hand.

Sherlock rushed over and grabbed the papers, keeping his gun trained on the intruder.

"John, call Lestrade," he ordered. "Treat Sierra's arm and get paramedics and the alkylated triazole out carefully and quickly." John nodded and motioned for me to follow him out of the kitchen. I complied and sat on the couch. I dumped bottle after bottle of warm water onto my arm then into a bucket. Army doctor's orders; for at least twenty minutes or until the paramedics arrived.

A few minutes later, Lestrade burst in with a group of paramedics.

"Don't touch the purple paint," I warned. "Alkylated triazole. Highly toxic, contact or ingestion. We'll all need treatment just for standing near it."

"Dangerous stuff," Lestrade said as he carefully walked into the kitchen to help Sherlock. The paramedics rushed me downstairs and into an ambulance. Wow, they had a lot of flashing lights. Did they think I had been shot in the heart or something? Well, I had actually shot _a_ heart, but…

"Are you in pain?" one of them asked me.

"What do you think?" I snapped, irritated. I got all irritated by everything around me, distracting me from everything else around me. Why didn't I have my music with me?!

They sent me straight to the hospital and got me de-alkylated-triazole-ized. Then they left me in one of those rooms with the chest sticker wires and an IV. I didn't need all this. I wasn't dying! But the doctors were running to and fro, clipboards exchanged and information received. It was way more complicated than it needed to be.

And we were at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, so Molly was there pegging me with questions about Sherlock.

Speaking of, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade came in for checkups on inhalation of the chemical. They tested safe; surprising considering how close we were to it.

Of course, one of them had to blab to Mycroft about what happened. Five minutes later he was sitting in one of the extra chairs.

"How bad is it?" he asked, motioning to my arm. My whole right hand and most of my forearm was covered in bandages; thin but strong. I could move my fingers and wrist completely, and my arm didn't look fat from the bandages, but my skin was still completely covered.

"It's nothing," I whined. "I just want to get out of here. They're all overreacting. Plus; I hate needles." I was referring to the IV. The doctor finally came back in with my release order and a prescription for pain medications.

I left the hospital quickly. And I ignored Mycroft's offer to drive me home, catching a cab instead. Back to Baker Street it is.

* * *

I got back to the flat to see that the alkylated triazole all over the place had been dealt with. That was good. I saw my mp3 player near John's laptop. I happily snatched it and plugged myself in.

"Let me see it," John said sternly from behind me. He was sitting on the couch while Sherlock was messing around in the kitchen.

"See what?" I asked.

"The burn," he replied.

"I'm not supposed to take off the bandages," I pointed out.

"I'm a doctor," he reminded me. "I get privileges." I hesitantly unwrapped my arm, allowing him to see the chemical burn.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson said. I didn't notice her come in. "That looks terrible." John stood up and walked over, examining the arm.

"What pain medication do they have you on?" he asked.

"I'm not taking it," I replied. "Drugs screw with my mind."

"They mess with everyone's mind," he said. "You'll need it."

"No, I won't," I insisted, carefully re-wrapping my arm. I was glad then that the killer came in the night. If he had come in the day, my new jacket would've been ruined.


	5. Lazy Day: Part 1

**A/N: So, update schedule went down the drain… stuck with it longer than I thought I would though. Three weeks^^ New record! So I probably should've pointed out the time period of this story. It starts post-Baskerville but pre-Reichenbach. So, basically, the only canon storyline in here will be Reichenbach. Once we get to post-Reichenbach, I don't care how season three takes it, I'm doing my own thing. So that's that. Here's the first half of a new case! I hope you like it!**

* * *

_Lazy Day pt 1_

* * *

_Previously…_

_"What pain medication do they have you on?" he asked._

_"I'm not taking it," I replied. "Drugs screw with my mind."_

_"They mess with everyone's mind," he said. "You'll need it."_

_"No, I won't," I insisted, carefully re-wrapping my arm. I was glad then that the killer came in the night. If he had come in the day, my new jacket would've been ruined._

* * *

I stared at the ceiling boredly. There was nothing to do, and I was technically still grounded; Sherlock didn't forget that easily. Not allowed to leave, and not allowed to complain.

What a dick.

I sighed, and looked sideways at the smiley face on the wall. Even shooting the wall would make me feel better. But I liked Mrs. Hudson, so I wasn't going to help Sherlock destroy her wall. I closed my eyes. No way to pass the time like listening to music and thinking about painful memories.

* * *

_~Two years earlier…~_

* * *

_I stared at James, wide-eyed, taking in his warm brown eyes and soaked blond hair framing his face. My own hair was soaked as well, clinging to my neck and back. The rain masked the shouting of the other teens goofing off. I was the youngest in the grade, it was my senior year and I was only about to turn sixteen. I could slightly hear one of James' used-to-be friends's teasing voice, but I wasn't paying attention._

_James was talking to me. After two years, he actually said something to me. The loneliest two years of my life. James was my last friend after Lizzie and Cece died. And he was finally talking to me since his mom died._

"_What do you say?" he asked. He looked uncomfortable._

"_Friday night sounds great," I replied with a smile. I was so happy. I had my only friend back. And we were going to a film on Friday night. Not as friends though; as a couple._

_His eyes lit up and he hugged me. I was so warm inside despite the rain. I hugged him back and rested my head on his shoulder, giving his old friend – who was still teasing – an evil stare._

_James then left to get in the car with his dad so he could go home. I walked back to the overhang above the main entrance to the school. As I passed the guy who was teasing James, I flicked him the V. he called me something, but I was too distracted by what just happened with James to care; although I was pretty sure he said "Bitch." For the first time in my life, I ignored an insult and kept walking. I decided to wait and read under the overhang until the rain died down so I could walk home._

_I sat down, leaning against the building, and pulled my book out of my backpack. I opened to my bookmark and started where I left off._

_Not five minutes had gone by before the jerk who called me a bitch and his two friends were standing in front of me._

"_What was that, some sort of sappy apology?" he asked._

"_Oh James," one of his friends said mockingly, hugging himself in a really disturbing way._

"_You're not in a stupid chick flick," the last one snorted._

_I didn't speak. I flicked them the V again and continued reading. What were their names again? Oh yeah, James' old friend was Mark, the one trying to mock me by hugging himself was Andrew, and the other one was Kevin._

"_Hey!" Mark ordered angrily. He grabbed my book and threw it in a puddle of mud a few feet away. "You look at me when I'm talking to you!"_

_Andrew then proceeded to kick me in the face; Kevin joining in instantly by kicking me in the gut. I grabbed my backpack – my heavy backpack – and slammed it into Andrew's face as payback, but it wasn't enough. Mark joined in; I couldn't handle three on one._

_They ran off when my favorite teacher, Mr. Davis, came out the doors. He reached down and helped me up._

"_I can suspend them," he offered._

"_Don't bother," I muttered, picking my book up out of the mud. I shook it carefully, trying to get as much water and mud out of it as I could. "If they get in trouble with a teacher they'll just think I can't take care of myself. Thank you though, Mr. Davis." I started walking home, not caring about the rain. I could feel a black eye coming on._

* * *

_On Friday, I was still sore. And the black eye was obvious. I tried to convince James to move the date. I didn't want the public to think he did it. But he wouldn't move it, and I understood why. I wanted to go out with him and spend time with him._

_I was in my bedroom, getting ready. I wasn't one for fancy dresses or makeup, but I did make an effort to look nice._

_Mum let me use some of her makeup to cover up the bruises as best I could. I had changed into a summery red dress down to my knees and a small white jacket. My hair had been straightened and re-styled, falling loosely down my back and around my face. It partially covered my black eye._

_I smiled at my reflection when I heard a knock on the door. I happily ran downstairs to see James standing in front of me; just in jeans and a t-shirt and a hoodie. Nice-casual, just like what I was wearing. I hugged him and invited him in. We still had some time to kill before the film._

_Mum was happy to see him. She hugged him and offered to make tea and biscuits, which he politely declined. We were going to get something to eat at the cinema._

_We left my house with time to spare. The whole car ride, James kept telling me cheesy jokes. It was great. There was no way the film could be better than just spending this time with him._

_When we got there, we saw Mark and his buddies using illegal drugs outside the building. We attempted to completely ignore them, but that failed when Mark yelled, "Holmes! Still having daddy issues?" He and his friends started laughing._

"_Oh shut up, Mark," James yelled back. "Come on, Sierra." He grabbed my hand confidently and we continued walking. But I knew something bad was going to happen. I didn't know how right I was._

_Apparently Mark and his friends got tickets to the same film James and I were going to see, just so they could bug us even more. They did bug us way more, and not just in an annoying way. In an "I – want – to – murder – you – for – almost – getting – my – boyfriend – arrested" way._

_I got up in the middle of the movie to use the restroom. Of course, Mark got up too. And just my luck, there was a police officer in the lobby when Mark tapped my shoulder and said in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice your black eye. Has your boyfriend been beating you?" This caught the police officer's attention._

"_No," I growled in response. "Leave me alone." But the problem with this was that the truth now was generally the typical response meaning "yes, he has." Damn._

"_Excuse me," the police officer said, walking over. "Is there a problem over here?"_

"_No," I replied defensively. But the more defensive I was, the less the police officer seemed to believe me. I saw James walk out into the lobby too, probably looking for me._

"_Sierra," he said, walking up to me. "What's going on?"_

"_Mark's being a dick," I retorted._

"_Are you this girl's boyfriend?" the officer asked, ignoring what I just said._

"_Yeah, why?" James replied._

"_Have you been beating her?"_

_James glared at Mark as he said, "No sir, I haven't."_

"_It was just bullies at school," I assured the officer. "I swear." He looked James over suspiciously before nodding and going about his business._

_After the movie, Mark and his friends stopped us outside. I scowled, "Get lost. Why are you so intent on screwing up my life, anyway?"_

"_Because they're insecure," James replied for them. "Let's just go."_

"_Not so fast," Mark said. "Come and chat a while."_

"_Not interested," I said, pushing past them towards the car. James followed me and we left, just like that._

* * *

~The present…~

* * *

My gaze hadn't left the ceiling. I looked sideways at John, who was updating his blog about our killer-in-the-kitchen problem. My arm was still nasty, but it didn't hurt at all.

"John," I started. "Do you know where Sherlock is?"

"Not exactly," he replied. "Just out."

"Do you think I could go to the café then?" I asked, sounding hopeful.

"No," he said. "You're staying in the flat." I frowned and looked back to the ceiling. I really didn't want to spend the rest of the day in my memories. At this rate, I'd be clinically insane by nightfall.

* * *

_~Two years ago…~_

* * *

_It was my sixteenth birthday. I didn't want a big party; I was just going to spend the evening with Mum and James. James had gone out to get a cake while Mum and I set up the main room for the three of us. James told me he'd be back in five minutes. Just five minutes._

_I got a phone call ten minutes later from James' mobile. But it wasn't James on the other end. It was a man who said, "My name is Jacob Hillsbury, and I'm a paramedic. I'm at the scene of a car crash that James Draison was involved in. You were the first emergency contact on his mobile."_

"_Oh God," I breathed. "Is he okay?"_

"_Well, we don't know yet. He's in an ambulance now on his way to the hospital. I'm right here next to him. He's unconscious."_

"_Which hospital," I asked, grabbing my jacket and tossing Mum her car keys."_

"_St. Bartholomew's."_

"_I'll be right there," I said. "Thank you." I ended the call and turned to Mum. "James was in a car crash. He's on his way to St. Bartholomew's in an ambulance."_

"_Get in the car," she said hurriedly. "We'll get there, don't worry."_

_The whole car ride there, I cried silently. James was in the hospital. _James_ was in the hospital. I couldn't believe it. I absolutely couldn't – _wouldn't _believe it._

_We got to the hospital and I ran inside. I stopped by the front desk quickly to get his room and ran off with a hurried "thank you."_

_I made it to James' room and sat down next to him, grabbing his hand gently. He was covered in bandages, blood seeping through a few of them._

"_James?" I whispered, trying not to let my voice shake too much. "Can you hear me?" No response. The tears were flowing uncontrollably now._

_I stayed with him until visiting hours were over. Right before I left, I bent over and kissed him. I would come back first thing tomorrow; I didn't care about school. I was sure if I explained everything to Mr. Davis later, I wouldn't get in too much trouble. Mum was okay with me skipping as well. She knew how important this was so she gave me the go-ahead._

_I didn't sleep well. I spent most of the night staring into nothing, tears silently falling onto my pillow._

_The next morning when I went to the hospital, James was dead. He had died from internal injuries overnight. I cried silently. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make a sound. That was probably a good thing, though. If I could have made noise, I would've screamed. I would've screamed and cried and wailed. But I just stood in silence, tears streaming down my face._

_Mum drove me home instead of to school. I was glad. I needed time alone to deal with my feelings. The whole time I sat in stunned silence. The tears had dried; now I was going through the numb shock. I couldn't bring myself to speak. No, that wasn't it. I didn't trust myself to speak. If I spoke, I didn't know what I'd say or how I'd say it. I could've lashed out at Mum for all I knew, and I didn't want that._

* * *

_Six weeks later, I still hadn't spoken a word. I had gone back to school, though. I was glad to realize that the teachers ignored me. Mr. Davis understood what was happening and didn't call on me in class._

_This particular day, I lost it. It was raining, just like the day James and I started talking again. Because of this, I was already in a delicate mood. I was waiting under the overhang for the rain to clear up so I could walk home. Then Mark and his gang showed up._

"_Where's James?" he teased. "Did he take a little _vacation_?" He and his friends started laughing._

_My temper snapped._

_With my left hand, I reached out and grabbed the front collar of his shirt. With my right hand balled up, I punched him square in the face. I was pretty sure I broke his nose._

_Keeping my grip on his shirt, I kneed where guys should never be kicked. When Andrew and Kevin tried to jump in, I kicked them back out; literally._

_I continued taking all of my frustration out on Mark, pushing Andrew and Kevin away whenever they got too close._

_Of course, the teacher who walked out right then was the one teacher who liked Mark and his buddies. If it had been Mr. Davis, he would've told me stop and given me a warning; and when Mark and his crew left, he would've congratulated me for standing up for myself. But _this_ teacher, she narrowed her eyes at me and snarled, "Principal, now."_

_I didn't protest. I pushed Mark down as I let go of his shirt and walked back into the school. When I got to the principal's office, he told me, "I've already called your mother. She's on her way."_

_I didn't speak. I sat down and stared at the floor, just waiting. The minutes felt like decades when spent in silence, but I still didn't trust myself to speak. Plus, I had been silent for so long I didn't even know if I still had my voice._

_When Mum walked in, she gave me a disappointed look. She sat down next to me and started talking to the principal. I stayed out of the conversation, letting her do the talking. She knew my problems with Mark well enough that I could let her do the explaining. I didn't pay much attention, anyways._

_After assuring the principal that it wouldn't happen again, Mum drove me home. In the car, she asked me, "Do you want to tell me what happened?" I shook my head. "Still not gonna say anything?" I just stared straight ahead. "You have to start communicating at some point, sweetie. You can't be silent for the rest of your life." I didn't respond._

_When we got home, I locked myself in my bedroom. I did my homework. I read. I drew. It had become a silent routine. I had dinner with Mum. She tried to make conversation, but I didn't play along._

* * *

~The present…~

* * *

I pressed my sleeve to my face as I realized I was crying. Taking a glance around the flat, I noticed that Sherlock and John had switched places. Sherlock was on John's laptop while John had mysteriously disappeared.

"You're crying," Sherlock observed without looking up from the laptop. I wiped up one last tear.

"So what?" I retorted, my voice small from the grief.

"Just making an observation," he said.

"Where's John?" I changed the subject.

"Groceries." I nodded and we sat in silence. Eighteen months. That's how long I didn't speak a word after James died. Then a couple months later, Mum died. And here I was.

Sherlock's mobile made a ding. Since it was on the other side of the flat, he didn't bother to go get it. I stood up with a sigh and grabbed his phone, looking at the text. My eyes widened.

"Sherlock," I said. "We have a problem."

"What?" he said, sounding annoyed. I read him the text:

NUMBER BLOCKED.

I HAVE YOUR FRIEND. BRING HER AND YOU CAN HAVE HIM BACK.

* * *

**A/N: So that's Lazy Day pt 1~ I'm just gonna clear up ages real quick. As of right now in this story, Sherlock is 36, John is 39, Moriarty is 35, Mycroft is 43, Lestrade is 41, Sierra turns 18 next week. In the flashbacks, Sierra was almost 16/16****th**** birthday. You do the math for the two weeks. At the beginning of the flashback when she was almost 16, James was 17 and Mark was 18. When she turned 16, James had just gotten his driver's license. Don't forget to review!**


	6. Lazy Day: Part 2

**A/N: So here's the last part of Lazy Day! And guess what? Next chapter cannon starts! With the search for the painting, that is. Not quite at the cannon episode yet people. But enjoy the chapter, and don't forget to review!**

* * *

_Lazy Day: Part 2_

* * *

_Previously…_

* * *

_"Sherlock," I said. "We have a problem."_

_"What?" he said, sounding annoyed. I read him the text:_

_NUMBER BLOCKED._

_I HAVE YOUR FRIEND. BRING HER AND YOU CAN HAVE HIM BACK._

* * *

"It's a kidnapping," Sherlock said bluntly. "I don't do kidnappings."

"It's _John_," I accused.

"It's a kidnapping," he repeated. "I don't do kidnappings. The police will get him back soon enough."

"You heartless bastard," I said. "Fine. I'm going after John myself then." I was about to walk out, despite whatever Sherlock said, when the phone went off again.

NUMBER BLOCKED

LET ME REPHRASE WHAT I JUST SAID. I HAVE DOCTOR WATSON. I WILL KILL HIM IF I DON'T HAVE SIERRA HOLMES IN ONE HOUR. ST BART'S HOSPITAL BASEMENT.

"Sherlock, they're gonna kill him," I said. "And whoever it is, they want me for some reason. Are you coming or not?" I took his response, or lack thereof, as a no and left the flat, making sure to slam the door on my way out.

It didn't take too long to get to the hospital. It was going to be trouble getting to the basement, though. The whole walk, memories of my sixteenth birthday played over and over in my mind. When I finally reached the basement, it was empty. Silly me; no it wasn't. They were hiding. Of course they were.

"I'm here," I called out tentatively. "Where's John?"

"Alone?" an annoyingly familiar voice asked from out of sight. "I wasn't expecting that."

"Shouldn't you be in school?" I taunted. "It's a bad example when seniors ditch."

"Coming from the girl who didn't speak most of her senior year," came the argument. "Little miss 'oh, I'll just graduate two years early because I'm just that smart.'"

"While you got held back a year," I snorted. "Come out, Mark, so I can punch your ugly face." I heard a gunshot. I panicked and yelled, "John!"

"Paranoia?" Mark laughed. "That's new from you. It's funny how you react to things when you can't see the problem."

"Say that to my face," I challenged. "So I can kick you in the balls as a thank you." He stepped around a corner, allowing me to see his stupid face. I still couldn't see John.

"Hello Sierra," he said, walking up to me. "Long time, no see."

"Not long enough," I muttered. "_Forever_ wouldn't have been long enough." He laughed. Since when was he a criminal ass who was trying to be light-hearted? You know, those weird criminals who actually pretend to be friendly? Yeah, that. The thought of Mark ever being light-hearted about anything almost made me laugh. Also, since when was he actually smart enough to pull this off?

Ah. Now I understood. The center of all our problems; Moriarty. Why did _everything_ trace back to him? It was annoying and slightly creepy. I stared blankly at him. Why did this guy keep showing up in my life? He's a total dick! That's Mark _and_ Moriarty. Even worse than Sherlock, and that's saying something.

"I'm glad you came," he said.

"Why does he want me?" I asked, straight to the point.

"He?" he asked. "Oh, him. Nah, he doesn't give a crap. He's just interested in watching."

"So he's either at the other end of that camera or in this room," I concluded. I pulled out Sherlock's gun, which I stole, and shot the camera. "Where's John?" I pointed the gun at Mark as encouragement.

"You wouldn't really shoot me," he said.

"Watch me," I countered. "You have ten seconds to get John in my line of sight unharmed or this bullet is going to interrupt your train of thought." He disappeared behind a wall. A few seconds later, he dragged John out, bound and gagged. I still kept the gun trained on him. "Now untie him and let him go; I'm here, just like you wanted." He untied John's wrists and took the gag out of his mouth.

"You can go now, Doctor Watson," he said. "I have unfinished business with Sierra." I nodded at John reassuringly, but also as a 'yeah, get Sherlock.' He nodded back and left.

"So now it's just us," I said.

"You're right," Mark replied, pulling out a knife. "It's time for me to pay you back." I finally noticed that his nose was angled oddly. I must've really broken the shit out of it the day I kicked his ass.

"Why not just shoot me?" I retorted, eyeing the knife. "A lot cleaner."

"I want it to last," he said, his eyes glittering dangerously. The first chills of fear started creeping up my arms.

He ran at me quickly, kicking the gun out of my hands and swiping at my neck with the knife. I ducked and kicked him in the gut, then took a couple steps backwards to put some space between us. Two things; one, he was never good at PE so why is he so fast? And two, someone must've taught him karate.

He lashed out with the knife again, slicing right through the bandages and cutting deep into my still-healing arm. The searing pain almost made me scream, but I caught myself. I stumbled backwards and yanked off my hoodie, wrapping it tightly around my arm. I looked towards the gun on the floor several meters away and dashed for it. I heard Mark run after me, which only made me run faster.

I reached the gun and grabbed it. I turned quickly and fired a wild shot in his general direction, but I was pretty sure I missed. A silver flash of the knife just inches in front of my face confirmed my guess. I scrambled backwards wide-eyed, terrified for my life. Mark had officially gone insane.

I heard another gunshot that didn't come from my gun. At first I thought Mark had finally pulled a gun of his own. I looked up and saw that he still only had the knife. The bullethole in his leg was new, though. I looked around the room and saw Sherlock, John, and Lestrade at the entrance. Sherlock was the one holding the smoking gun.

"Honestly Sierra," he said. "You're more trouble than you're worth."

"Marcus Pierce, you are under arrest for kidnapping and attempted murder," Lestrade said, putting Mark in handcuffs. Cool. I got someone arrested for attempted murder. Of course, _I_ was the attempted murder, but still. John walked over.

"You did not hurt your arm again," he said accusingly. I remained silent. He sighed, "Come on. Let me see it." I untied my hoodie from my arm and let him examine the wound. "It's really deep."

"I could see that," I replied. "It doesn't hurt." I could barely keep myself from screaming.

"Now that's a lie," he said. "No matter how much you try to hide what you're feeling, some pain you can't hide no matter how hard you try." I just stared blankly at him, trying to block out the feeling that my arm was falling off.

"Stand up," Sherlock said from behind me. When I didn't comply immediately, he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me up. "Your arm is injured badly and you're just sitting in a hospital basement instead of going upstairs and getting it treated. Think, Sierra."

"I'm sorry," I said sarcastically. "The guy who beat me up on a daily basis who basically made high school a living hell just tried to stab me to death. Forgive me for being a little out of it."

"Just come on," he growled, giving me an encouraging shove towards the door. I kept walking upstairs to get my arm checked out. The doctors were not happy that the chemical burn was opened up.

I got it treated, disinfected, and bandaged. And then they gave me another IV! I wanted to scream. Not because of the cut, but because that was the second needle in three days that got taped into my elbow. I was finally released and grabbed a cab back to the flat.

* * *

I didn't need a surprise party; I didn't _want _a surprise party. But I got one nonetheless. I walked into the flat where John, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, and another woman I didn't know were waiting for me.

"Welcome back from the hospital!" Molly said as Mrs. Hudson hugged me.

"Guys," I said. "It was stitches, not a heart transplant."

"We didn't welcome you altogether anyways," Lestrade said. "Think of it a delayed pleased-to-meet-you get-together."

As time went by, people chatted and laughed. Well, most people. Sherlock had disappeared somewhere and I just sat on the couch and watched. I wasn't a social person.

The woman I didn't know sat on the couch next to me and held out her hand. "I'm Sergeant Sally Donovan, working under Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Sierra Holmes," I replied, shaking her hand. "You know my dad the jerk, my uncle the strange, and his flatmate the one I can actually live with." She smiled at my descriptions of Mycroft, Sherlock, and John, respectively.

"I know who you are," she said. "I was there that night at the teacher's flat."

"I don't remember you," I said.

"You wouldn't," she said. "I didn't try to talk to you or anything."

"Well, we're talking now," I said.

"I actually wanted to warn you," she said. "About your uncle."

"Trust me," I replied. "I know."

"He's a psychopath," she started. "He enjoys the murder investigations. I would stay away from him."

"Well, we don't really get along in the first place," I said. "We're too alike. And about the investigations, I enjoy them too in a way. I don't like the death and the danger, but I like being able to use my brain to its full extent. One more thing. He's not a psychopath. He's a high-functioning sociopath. I called him a psychopath once and he told me to research the difference."

"He told Anderson the same thing," she replied. "And it seems to me that he likes the danger that comes with the investigations."

"That very well may be," I said. "I know John does. He was a soldier. Without the danger and adrenaline from the battlefield, he probably didn't feel right."

"That I understand," she said. "But still. Freak has nothing-"

"That's what you call Sherlock?" I asked. She nodded. "That's genius!" I laughed a bit. She started laughing too.

We talked for the rest of the night. I liked her for the most part. When it was time for everyone to leave, I told her, "Don't worry; you'll probably be back next week for my birthday."

"You bet I'll be back," she said. "I'll see you around, Sierra." She and Lestrade left, and Molly soon after. Mycroft wasn't leaving anytime soon, and that annoyed me.

I laid down on the couch and ignored him. I basically ignored all of them. I wasn't going to sleep yet, though. I wasn't tired.

But I did turn on my music and close my eyes. I just needed to relax. After a while, though, I did fall asleep. Mycroft still hadn't left.

* * *

**A/N: So there's chapter 6! And the end of the Lazy Day storyline. Little teaser for next one, the pair of chapters is called ****Falls of Blood****, and it starts heading towards the cannon! Yay! So don't forget to review guys^^ I love knowing what you think. Each review seriously makes my day, and if I get two in one day, it re-makes my day. So let me know!**


	7. Falls of Blood: Part 1

**A/N: So here's chapter 7! And the beginning of semi-canon! So, there's one weird thing in this chapter. I had a really big spurt of randomness as I was writing this. And in the story, she didn't have her mp3 player at the time, so I just slipped some of that in there. So to those of you who aren't exactly fans of randomness, forgive me. Anyways, enjoy chapter 7!**

* * *

_Falls of Blood: Part 1_

* * *

_Previously..._

* * *

_I laid down on the couch and ignored him. I basically ignored all of them. I wasn't going to sleep yet, though. I wasn't tired._

_But I did turn on my music and close my eyes. I just needed to relax. After a while, though, I did fall asleep. Mycroft still hadn't left._

* * *

It's been two weeks since the problem with Mark. My arm was healing well; I got the stitches out a couple days ago. I was really excited for today. It was my birthday today; eighteen. Sherlock, of course, didn't really care. This morning, I told him and got an "Oh really? Dear God I'm getting old." That was about it from him. John, on the other hand, was excited and said "Ignore him; we can go do something to celebrate tonight." So, tonight, John, Lestrade, Molly, myself, and Sherlock were going to a club. Reason enough to be excited.

I was looking through my small selection of clothes, searching for something club-worthy. I found blood-red ripped jeans, a glittery gold belt, a black cami, and my old combat boots. That worked. I changed quickly and walked out to the main room and threw on my white leather jacket, practically throwing myself on the couch.

"There she is," John said, standing up from his laptop. "Birthday girl."

"What's there to be so excited about?" she asked from the kitchen.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said. "Eighteen's a big day." Sherlock didn't reply and I rolled my eyes. He always acted like he didn't care, but I knew that wasn't true. He cared about John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and myself. He was happy for me that today I turned eighteen; I could see it all over him and hear it in his tone of voice. And I had to admit, I was getting attached too. Not just to Sherlock, but to John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and even Sergeant Donovan.

I was starting to live in constant fear because of it. I was becoming attached to people again, and I was starting to show it too. I was constantly terrified that one of them would get killed. All because I cared for them.

The three of us left the flat. Well, it was more like John and I left while we dragged Sherlock along behind us. We met up with Molly and Lestrade a few blocks away from the club and walked the rest of the way. We were let in without getting IDs checked, which was probably a good thing. This club's age limit was 18, not 21, but I didn't have an ID yet. We went inside and the first thing I noticed was that it was _loud_. I liked it; even though the music itself was crap.

After about half an hour, Lestrade got a phone call. He stepped outside and back in in just a few moments. I walked up to him.

"What's wrong?" I shouted over the noise.

"I'm being called in," he yelled back. "There's a problem at the museum."

"I'll just grab Sherlock and John," I replied. "And we'll all go."

"If you really want to." I smiled and rounded up John and Sherlock. And we were off to the museum, ready for another case.

* * *

Damn, I left my mp3 player back at the flat. The museum was surrounded by police cars and flashing lights. My focus was jumping all over the place. I could barely keep track of where I was putting my feet.

"Sierra," Lestrade said as I stopped walking for a minute because of the lights and lack of focus. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, regaining my concentration. "I'm just a little unfocused is all."

We continued into the museum, where I continued to be distracted by the bright colors of the artwork. Lestrade led us past a taped-off area, where an empty space on a wall indicated a stolen painting. In the artwork's place, there was a fraction of four letters spray-painted in red:

SH  
JB

"Any idea what it means?" Lestrade asked.

"29," Sherlock replied, moving closer to investigate. "SH is my initial. That might be part of it."

"It's mine too," I reminded him.

"46," he said as a response. I took a few steps closer.

"I think we should analyze the paint itself," I said. I reached out and touched the paint. It was still wet. I rubbed it experimentally between my fingers. Something didn't feel right. This wasn't paint. I was confident enough in my deduction to taste the substance. My eyes widened. "It's-"

"Blood," Sherlock finished for me. "This was drawn on in blood."

"Spray painted," I corrected. "Look at the splatters. Someone sprayed blood out of a can."

"That's disgusting," Lestrade said.

"Sounds like something Sherlock would do," John joked.

"Yes, but I wouldn't break into a museum," Sherlock replied.

"Yeah you would," I retorted. "But you were with us the whole time so you're clean. For now."

He rolled his eyes and looked at the ground. "Scuff marks," he remarked."

"It's a museum," Lestrade said. "People walk around here all the time."

"These are fresh," Sherlock argued. He crouched over the mark, blocking it from my view. "I need to see the shoes of all police officers who have been in this area since the painting was stolen."

"What?" Lestrade asked. "Why?"

"For a shoe match," Sherlock replied. "If none of the shoes match the scuffs, we have our first lead."

"Scuff marks are a _lead_?" John asked.

"Of course," I responded for Sherlock. "If it doesn't match with any of the police, we can use the marks to find out the shoe size and the exact shoe type. This will tell us if our thief is more likely male or more likely female."

"Thank you, Sierra," Sherlock said. "Like I really needed you to explain that for me."

"_They_ needed it," I retorted.

Within five minutes, all of the police were lined up with Sherlock bent over, inspecting their shoes. It was actually an amusing sight. In the end, there were no matches. A lead. Marvelous.

Sherlock jumped for joy at not having a match. He examined the scuff close up, muttering to himself, "Size eight feet, most likely male." He straightened up. "John, Sierra, back to the flat."

"Yes, your bossiness," I said sarcastically with a mock bow.

"Sierra," he said warningly. "I'll ground you again."

"And I'll tell Mycroft if you try that again," I snorted. "The first time was _hell_."

"Then you'll do well to remember not to annoy me again," he concluded. John laughed and I glared. During my glare, I noticed something Sherlock had missed. There was a scratch on the wall from where the painting was taken. It showed me exactly which way it went.

I decided against telling Sherlock. It would just inflate his ego and he'd save the day again. I wanted a chance at this one alone now that I was eighteen.

"I'll catch up with you later," I said. "I have something I need to do first."

"And what's that?" Sherlock asked.

"Yell at Mycroft," I lied. "For ignoring my eighteenth birthday." He _did_ ignore my birthday, but I wasn't really going to go yell at him. I was going to go after the painting.

"Don't be too late," he said. I nodded and left in the direction that the scratch pointed. I found another scratch around the corner. And another one.

I kept finding them out of the museum. Whoever did this was either laying a trap or incredibly stupid. I hoped with all my heart that it was the latter; I wasn't in the mood for dealing with a trap. It was late, I was tired, and my mp3 player was still back at the flat.

Well, there would be one good thing if this was a trap. I would find the culprit and maybe even the painting. That would be a plus. Not like I wouldn't find it anyway if it were just stupidity.

The scratches led to a dark alley. I stopped. Now I knew that it was a trap. It was too cliché. I sighed. I had no weapon. That was a stupid move. I shouldn't have followed without a weapon anyways.

Actually, the thief might be stupid after all. The whole alley thing was _so_ cliché that it was probably the work of an idiot.

Probably.

I looked at the two buildings creating the alley. One was tall and smooth, an apartment building maybe. The other was rather short with a rusty old fire escape in the alleyway.

I decided to scale the short building for a bird's eye view of the alley. Before moving though, I checked the street corner security cameras. In turn, each of them looked the other way. Thank you, Mycroft. Much appreciated, and that was not sarcasm.

I grabbed the first handhold I saw and started climbing. As I climbed, I ignored my sweaty palms and freezing fingers. I just kept pulling my way to the roof.

I saw no one as I looked down into the alley. It was no doubt a trap. I looked closer, trying to find the trapper. They were nowhere to be seen; most likely hiding.

I pulled off my golden belt and dropped it in the alley. No one came out, but I did see a movement. Person in the dumpster. He – I could now tell that they were 100% male – probably wasn't alone. Dammit!

I knew Mycroft knew what I was doing, so I prayed that he notified Sherlock. If he did, I would personally thank him. I shivered at the thought; being in Mycroft's office and being _nice_ to him.

Never mind.

Well, I had to get my belt back somehow. It was expensive; I wasn't just going to leave it in an alley. I was going to be very stupid now. I knew my idea was stupid, but my judgment wasn't necessarily perfect. Unfocused due to lack of a specific mp3 player. Meh, who cares?

I started down the fire escape into the alley. An image of a waterfall slipped into my mind. I was supposed to be looking for something, wasn't I? It had something to do with a waterfall. I wanted to go to North America and see Niagara Falls. Maybe I could stop by a concert while I was there.

I shook my head. _No._ Belt, painting. Stay focused. I wanted to scream in frustration. I was cold, tired, and stuck in an alley. I wanted to curl up and sleep. Right here would be fine; it was sturdy... ish. Maybe the dumpster. But wasn't there something bad about that? I couldn't quite remember.

I shook my head again. Belt. Painting. Bad guy in the dumpster. Speaking of, the alley smelled disgusting. I wanted to go buy air freshener and drown this little place in it. Wait, no, that would smell disgusting. What about fresh fruit? If I cut them open to release the smell, that would make the alley smell better. My mouth watered at the thought. Fresh fruit sounded really good right now. Wait. Not fresh fruit; chocolate. Oh, chocolate right now would be amazing.

I felt a strange impact on the bottom of my foot and I was suddenly falling.

Rattly old fire escape.

Painting.

Criminal in a dumpster.

_Ground._

I closed my eyes, bracing for impact. I landed with a thump, pain exploding over every inch of my body. Despite that, though, I didn't think anything was broken. I was already close to the ground when I fell. Why the hell did I keep getting hurt? It pissed me off!

After lying dazed for a few seconds, the pain became bearable. I slowly and carefully stood up, clutching my head. I saw smoke rolling out of the dumpster. No, it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. Or was it? For all I knew, the guy could've lit the garbage on fire. But it didn't smell. Odd.

"Sierra," I heard a voice behind me. I froze, literally. I stood still as a stone, probably pale as a ghost as well. My heart felt like deadweight, and my blood felt like liquid ice.

I looked over my shoulder, my body beginning to shake uncontrollably. My eyes were wide, all of my fear, guilt, and love visible in them to all who knew where to look.

My voice turned small, barely above a whisper. My lungs were ice.

And the jar shattered. My heart, my emotions, were free again. All of it; every smile, every fear, every spark of angle I would have felt in the last two years all spilled out as one small word left my lips, leaving a bittersweet chill in my mouth.

"James?"

* * *

**A/N: Dun dun DUN! And that's all you get this time! I'm interested in what your theories about this chapter are, so please review^^**


	8. Falls of Blood: Part 2

**A/N: So here's part two of Falls of Blood! I liked this one... but that's because I'm me. Every story needs a crazy psychological chapter, right?**

* * *

_Falls of Blood: Part 2_

* * *

_Previously..._

* * *

"_Sierra," I heard a voice behind me. I froze, literally. I stood still as a stone, probably pale as a ghost as well. My heart felt like deadweight, and my blood felt like liquid ice._

_I looked over my shoulder, my body beginning to shake uncontrollably. My eyes were wide, all of my fear, guilt, and love visible in them to all who knew where to look._

_My voice turned small, barely above a whisper. My lungs were ice._

_And the jar shattered. My heart, my emotions, were free again. All of it; every smile, every fear, every spark of angle I would have felt in the last two years all spilled out as one small word left my lips, leaving a bittersweet chill in my mouth._

"_James?"_

* * *

I've always been the kind of person who never believed anything until they saw it with their own eyes. My eyes have always been my greatest tool. They could see a man's life with a glance, cause a man one of the greatest discomforts with a stare, uncover a woman's entire personality with a blink. But above all else, my eyes have always told me what was real and what wasn't.

But this. This was real. And there was no way it was possible. He was here. Right in front of me.

James.

It looked like him. It sounded like him. The presence felt like him. It _was_ him. But it couldn't be. James Draison was dead; he had been dead for two years now.

I was at the hospital; I was at his _funeral_. I saw the body. But how could I deny my own eyes?

He walked towards me. I wanted to run, to escape this impossibility. But I was frozen, frozen as ice. By the time he was right behind me, I used all the energy I could to turn and face him.

I was terrified.

Without a word, he hugged me. He was warm. Alive. I let that warmth melt all the ice in my blood, my lungs. Let that warmth cover me until I could move again.

I flung my arms around him, embracing him in return. His breath was hot on my ear.

"I missed you," I whispered. "How are you here?"

"I have a question," he said. He pulled away and looked me in the eye. His hair was slightly longer than I remembered; it fell past his ears now. His eyes were warm and loving, even more so than in my memories. "Why did you kill me?"

Chills shot down my spine. I knew this was too good to be true. It was real, and I still didn't understand it, but it wasn't true. Whatever this was, it wasn't James.

"What?" I gasped.

"You killed me," he said simply. He was so comfortable in this situation that it couldn't be him. The real James would use expression and explanations. The real James wouldn't say that in the first place.

"I – I didn't-" I stuttered, not knowing how to react.

"It is your fault after all," he said with a warm smile. "I wouldn't have been there if I didn't know you."

"This isn't you," I whispered, my confidence shaking. I stepped backwards as he took a step towards me. I kept walking backwards as he walked forwards. I ended up backed up against the wall.

"I just want an answer," he said honestly. My legs gave out and I sat down, using the wall as support. The smoke still poured out of the dumpster, but it slipped through my mind without holding my attention. He crouched in front of me and lightly placed his hand on my cheek. He continued, "Please, just be honest with me."

"I didn't mean to," I stammered. "I didn't know, I-"

"But you did," he cut me off. Something flashed in his eyes that terrified me. It was some sort of deep anger or hate. "It still happened, Sierra. I still died because of you."

I tried to blink the ghost away, but it just made it worse. One blink changed him from him to blood-covered and bruised like the night of the crash. His eyes turned pained, and I could feel his blood on my cheek where his hand still was. He was ghostly pale due to the dark blood covering him.

It frightened me even more.

"My blood is on your hands," he whispered sweetly. This. Wasn't. Him. I had to keep reminding myself.

"James," I choked out. I could feel burning behind my eyes as tears threatened to fall. I blinked them away. "I would never hurt you!"

"You did," he repeated. His whisper seemed to echo around the alley. I could no longer tell if the wet on my cheek under his hand was his blood or my tears.

"I wouldn't," I repeated, trying to convince myself as much as him. I shook my head slightly.

"You did."

"No!" I cried. "You're not James!"

He leaned forward and kissed me; a kiss full of blood and tears. Could it really be him?

No.

It couldn't.

Not at all.

A realization dawned on me. The blood spray painted at the museum. SH/JB. Sierra Holmes over James' body. Now this was just sick. Someone was trying to distract me from the painting.

"Where's the painting?" I asked when he pulled away.

"What painting?" he countered. "There's nothing to do with a painting in any of this."

"Yes there is," I said, my confidence slowly returning. "James Draison has been dead for two years. You're trying to distract me from finding the painting."

"There is no painting," he said. "Just you, me, and my question. Why?" He removed his hand from my cheek.

"You're not James," I said shakily, finding enough confidence to stand up. He stood up with me. "And the Falls of the Reichenbach is in this alley."

"There is no painting," he said threateningly.

"You're getting defensive about it," I said, on the verge of hysterics. "It's here."

The smoke continued rising out of the dumpster. What happened to the man in there? It might've just been my eyes playing tricks on me. I saw a flash of gold behind the dumpster. I walked over to it, as steady as I could.

It was just my belt. How did it get back there?

"I told you," James said as he walked behind me. I turned to face him. "This has nothing to do with the stolen painting."

"I don't understand," I stammered. "I-"

"Answer me," he interrupted.

"If you answer me first," I countered.

"You're dodging the question."

"I'll answer your question if you answer me first," I said. "I promise." He nodded hesitantly. "The car who hit you. Who was it?"

He was silent for a minute before asking, "Do you really want to know?" I nodded. He sighed and looked me in the eye. "Moriarty."

My breath hitched in my throat. Of course. Screwing up my life before he became a part of it; there's Moriarty for you.

"Now you answer my question," he said evenly. "Why did you kill me?"

"I-"

"Sierra!" a voice from the entrance to the alley called. It was Sherlock, John wasn't with him.

"Sherlock?" I gasped. I turned back to James, but he wasn't there. When I turned back to Sherlock, he was breathing through the fabric of his collar as if trying to filter the air he was breathing. The smoke from the dumpster was roiling around my feet.

"Sierra, what are you doing in there?" he asked. I only just realized how fast my tears were falling.

I ran. I didn't care about my strange encounter with the ghost of my two-years dead boyfriend killed by Moriarty. I ran towards my uncle, ran like I had never run before. Ignoring the tears on my cheeks, I ran at him and hugged him tightly. The momentum caused him to stumble backwards as I buried my face in his coat.

He was surprised by my action, but I didn't care. I needed comfort. And quite honestly, Sherlock was the only person in the world I would go to for that. He awkwardly hugged me back, unsure of what to do.

So he took me back to the flat. And I practically clung to him the whole way back. We went upstairs and Sherlock sat me down on the couch. John rushed over and crouched in front of me, looking me over. Once a doctor, always a doctor.

"What happened, Sierra?" he asked as Sherlock got me a blanket. "Are you hurt?" He took my pulse.

"The paranoia toxin," she said, sitting on the couch next to me. He let me lean on him. Odd behavior for him, but I didn't particularly notice. "I don't know what she saw."

"From Baskerville?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. John took my pulse again. "Sherlock, she's going into shock."

"What?" Sherlock almost snapped at John.

"I said she's going into shock!" John repeated as their voices slowly becoming muddled.

"What kind?" Sherlock asked, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer to him. "Emotional or circulatory?"

"Emotional," John said, giving Sherlock a look that said "Get off of the couch." Sherlock just held me tighter. "With some rest and proper care, she should recover within 48 hours."

He sat down on the other side of me on the couch and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. We sat, just like that, for a while, staring into the darkness of the flat. I didn't remember falling asleep.

* * *

The next morning, it was just me on the couch. I shivered at the absence of Sherlock and John, though they were still in the room. John was at the desk on his laptop and Sherlock was in the armchair, tuning his violin.

I sat up, glancing around the flat to find my mp3 player. John was the first to notice I was up. he stood up and walked over to me.

"Can you tell me what you saw?" he asked. I opened my mouth to respond, but Sherlock beat me to it.

"James," Sherlock said. "Her last boyfriend who died in a car crash on her sixteenth birthday."

"How did you know?" I asked softly, regaining my voice.

"Mycroft," he said simply.

"How did he know?" I countered.

"Your mother," he said.

"Oh, they kept in touch?" I retorted.

"We did." I turned my head to see Mycroft standing in the doorway and groaned.

"Why do you tell him whenever I'm hurt?" I whined.

"So you are hurt?" John asked.

"I fell about five feet from a fire escape," I said. "I'm _fine_."

"You're not exactly fine," he argued. "Not even ten hours ago you were in shock."

"I recover quickly."

"No you don't," Mycroft interjected. I glared. "You didn't speak for eighteen months after your boyfriend died."

"No one asked you," I snapped.

"_Eighteen?_" John asked. "Sierra, that's really not good."

"Well, I'm fine now, aren't I?" I muttered. I stood up, grabbing my mp3 player from next to John's laptop and plugged myself in. "I'm getting food." I tried to go to the door, but Mycroft blocked the way. "Move out of the way."

"You're not leaving the flat," Sherlock said.

"What?" I snapped.

"Sierra, you're not leaving the flat," John said. "You just went through a traumatic experience, and you expect us to just let you leave?"

"And I can do as I please now," I shot back. "I'm eighteen. And who said anything about traumatic?"

"You were in shock for crying out loud!" he said. I stayed silent. "Just for today I want you to stay home; both as your doctor and your friend." I was still silent. "I'll go get you something to eat and pick up a film we can watch later. Sherlock's going to go find the painting. Mycroft's going to stay here with you until one of us gets back."

I nodded hesitantly, though I glared at Mycroft again and muttered, "I don't need a babysitter."

"I'm what?" Sherlock asked.

"You're going to go find the painting," John repeated.

"But it's too easy," Sherlock whined. "It's at the old warehouse by the bank."

"Then you'll be back in a flash," Mycroft said. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and left the flat as I moved back to the couch.

I ignored Mycroft and focused on my music as he sat in the armchair. I blocked out all of his attempts at conversation and sat in silence.

Too.

Bored.

I was ecstatic when Sherlock came back. Wow. That was different. I never expected that to ever happen. But it meant that I didn't have to stay with Mycroft any longer. Yay.

So, Sherlock had given the painting back to the museum and had to be at the re-opening tomorrow. Therefore, so did John and I.

* * *

"The Falls of the Reichenbach," the museum supervisor said. Sherlock, John, and I stood silently next to the painting. Quite honestly, it was not entertaining. "Turner's masterpiece. Thankfully recovered due to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Everyone started clapping and Sherlock twitched.

I smiled slightly. It seemed as though he didn't like the attention.

The man approached with a small box in red wrapping paper. He offered it to Sherlock, "A small token of our gratitude."

Sherlock took the box and said, "Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons." I rolled my eyes. Such an idiot sometimes for someone so intelligent.

John looked at him with an annoyed expression and corrected him, "He means thank you." The supervisor looked baffled.

"Do I?" Sherlock asked.

"Just say it," John and I sighed simultaneously.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, not meaning it at all. He made to leave, but John stopped him.

"Press," I whispered to Sherlock, who kept his annoyed face on as pictures were taken.

I smiled slightly. Once a Sherlock, always a Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N: Okay, so, slight travel problems coming up. That means no posting for a little over a month. I'm supposed to be in Boston this week (might not happen, but hoping it will) without computer access, then home for a week that is filled with other stuff, then I go camping for four weeks with no electronics! Yay! So, basically, expect this to be the last until the end of August. Have a great rest of your summer!**


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